


If we could sail on the wind and the dark

by Beleriandings



Series: In the midst of the innumerable stars [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Body Horror, Gen, Implied Vivisection, M/M, Space AU Thangorodrim rescue fic, basically everyone suffers a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 17:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5173103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The great, dark planet of Angband holds many dangers, but Findekáno will stop at nothing to get his dearest cousin back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If we could sail on the wind and the dark

Findekáno frowned as he gazed down at the great, dark planet that was looming so close now, nearly filling his pilot’s window. The display screens were filled with it too, and he watched the grey and black cloud layers flicker with lightning beneath, illuminating the static vortices of the great storms that banded the planet of Angband. 

It had not been named so for nothing, he thought, as the console blinked in warning. His ship was coming up on the inner radiation belt, and conditions here were extreme, the static already beginning to fill his screens, an ominous buzzing filling his ears from the radio feed, blaring in a moment to a whining painful note so loud he had to pull his headset off. Not that it would do him much good from now on; the ship was shutting itself down into safety mode. 

Though it was a routine procedure - the dimming of all but the emergency lights, the shutting off of all non-essential processing - it made Findekáno nervous, especially now. He felt horribly alone suddenly, the great dark mass of the planetary surface spread out across his field of view as though to engulf him and his familiar little metal capsule both in the sudden darkness. His ship suddenly seemed very fragile, scant protection against what may lie beneath that thick, oppressively toxic atmosphere.

With the lights off, and strapped closely into the cramped pilot’s chair, his hands anchored in the control gauntlets, there was nothing he could do but wait and watch, his eyes flickering between the dimmed display screens and the dark, hulking mass of the planet outside. This close, the clouds looked like oil on murky water, but lit with the perpetual crackling lighting that girdled the planet.

 _Somewhere down there_ , he thought. _Somewhere down there, Maitimo is alive_. He could not let himself even consider any other possibility. As it had so many times before, his mind ran over what he had heard of the barely-breathable atmosphere and extremes of temperature that characterised the surface. And that wasn’t even to mention the radiation... he shook his head. _Maitimo is alive_ , he thought. _It’s in Moringotto’s interest to keep him alive, but only I can save him from his suffering. I will get him back safely, or die in the attempt myself_ , he vowed.

The ship was passing through the peak of the radiation belt now. Findekáno felt confined and restless, impatient to get up and move around at least, though the seat's straps and the cramped cabin held him fast. This section of the transfer was difficult too; Findekáno had never been good at landings even on familiar planets, and a flicker of nervousness went through him at the thought of the landing itself, soon to come.

He had coordinates for Moringotto's great stronghold, near the planet's northern polar cap; he had carefully programmed them into the ship's navigation system himself. But he could only hope that they were accurate, and even then it was just an assumption that Maitimo was being held within. _If he wasn't there_ … for a moment, Findekáno allowed himself a moment of worry, to dwell on everything that may cause his quest to fail, before shaking his head determinedly. Thinking like that would not help, he knew. Such fears were useless and paralysing; what may come would come, and he would just have to make the best of it. He did not _want_ to die. _But,_ he thought, _if I were to be slain on the way to find Maitimo, or perished wandering the radiation-blasted ice-deserts, then perhaps it would be as worthwhile a way to go as any_ … 

Findekáno shook his head angrily, banishing those thoughts from his mind once again. _No. No more of that_.

He was through the radiation belt now, in a low orbit, and the lights were coming back on, the console blinking in recognition of his biometrics. He felt himself almost smile, even now; this was his father's ship, the very ship Findekáno had learned to fly in, and its controls were as familiar and comforting to him as the sound of his father's voice and his steady hands on Findekáno's smaller ones, guiding him on. 

Immediately Findekáno felt a stab of guilt, his smile fading; he had taken the ship without asking, stealing away in the night from his father's new-built docking port back on Hithlum. Findekáno had his own ship of course, a sleek and nimble little planethopper, but this one was far more reliable for distance travel. 

 _I will bring it back to Father_ , he promised silently. _I will bring it back when I return with Maitimo._ He remembered the plans he had made before leaving; he had lain awake at night planning his journey, silently stacking up his justifications, one upon the other. _Bring back Maitimo, for too many have died. Even Fëanáro's line deserve mercy in the face of the pain Moringotto could inflict, no matter what they have done. Heal the feud with the sons of Fëanáro. Restore the unity of our people._ Surely then his father would not grudge him the use of the ship. 

But even all that was in the future, the vague unknown _after_ that may not even come. _Rescue Maitimo_. _Rescue Maitimo and bring him home_. That was, at that moment, all that he could think. 

Even that was a lot to hope for, and Findekáno knew it. 

"Coordinates locked. Approaching atmosphere. Prepare for landing."

The voice of the console startled him out of his reverie as it restarted in a flicker of blinking lights. Findekáno nodded if only to himself, before leaning his head back into the padded belts of the pilot's seat headrest. This, he thought grimly, was likely to be a bumpy landing. 

Though he had checked many times, he ran his eyes quickly over the landing coordinates and the ship's stats on the display. As satisfied as he would ever be, he tried to relax his muscles even as his mind churned with schemes and hopes, possibilities and fears. They were passing into the atmosphere now; he was starting to lose visibility, and nervousness clawed its way through him once more even as he waited for the buffeting as they descended through the denser cloud layers below.

He had been prepared for a jolt, but the first one that rocked the ship took him by surprise even so, making him bite down on his lip hard enough to taste blood. He was just thinking of the roiling thunderstorms he had seen from orbit when another jolt of turbulence hit. Then another, not long after, throwing him from side to side in the pilot's chair, vibrations rattling through his body despite the padding and belts as the ship accelerated. Findekáno gritted his teeth. He could see the dim plasma glow of the ship's bow shock now, illuminating the cabin from outside with an eerie light. 

Another brilliant flash, and a shaking stronger than any of the others. It threw him against the edge of the seat despite the belts, bruising the whole left side of his body even through the padding. 

"Damn it! What was that?" Findekáno exclaimed, righting himself hastily. "Lightning?" 

"Yes, Master Findekáno. We are currently passing through anomalously extreme weather conditions" said the console. "Emergency landing mode recommended."

He nodded distractedly. "Yes, yes… wait no!" Emergency landing mode would help with stabilisation, and could mean the difference between a safe landing and a deadly crash. But it would drain the ship's power drastically, and it would also mean sacrificing landing site precision, as the ship's navigation system would relax its requirement on landing coordinates. Though he could see from the nav display that the ship was close to the landing site, who knew what the buffeting winds may do on the way down. He could end up hundreds of miles from the place. Findekáno knew that if that happened, he would not survive long, for he was not equipped for a long journey. He would run out of oxygen first, and suffocate in the toxic atmosphere, most likely. And, even if he didn't, once activated, emergency landing mode would send out an automatic distress signal, which would immediately bring all sorts of unwanted attention. He might be killed or captured himself, and that would put an end to any slim chance he might have had of saving Maitimo. 

"No" he said again, louder this time. "Override emergency landing mode."

"Master Findekáno" said the console, sounding for the world like a particularly condescending teacher he had had back in Tirion in his youth, "it is in my records that you bear epithet _the Valiant_ , and likely feel that you should be living up to it, but this is hardly the time. Emergency landing mode is highly recommended by - "

"Just do what I say!" He clenched his teeth in nervous annoyance, remembering why he had installed a manual console rather than an AI-enabled one on his own craft. 

"Yes, Master Findekáno, apologies. But my programming requires me to inform you of the danger to your person." 

Findekáno smiled bitterly, gripping the controls hard. Dark grey-black clouds rushed past him, blanking out most of his view from both the window and the side and reverse video feeds. "Go on then. What are my chances of making it out of this alive?"

"Currently you have a projected probability of survival of twenty-three percent."

"Great" muttered Findekáno. "Good to know, console. Now shut up."

 _Twenty-three percent. That isn't much, but it isn't zero either_. He braced himself as another violent shuddering nearly dashed his head against the ceiling. Lightning illuminated the cabin in stark blue-white, making his eyes smart with tears. _Twenty-three percent was enough; it had to be_. He would make it out of this, and he would bring Maitimo with him. 

"Warning. Unrecognised protective force field detected. Unrecognised - "

The words of the console were cut off by an explosion of terrifying force. This was no lightning, he knew immediately. Not this time. For a start it was closer than any of the lightning strikes, seeming to hit the very ship itself. For a split second, he saw through the window the nose of the ship illuminated in blinding white brilliance. For a moment after he was left completely blind, scrabbling in the dark, before his stomach dropped within him as the ship listed violently and then began to plummet straight down, before falling into a sickening, careening roll. 

"Attitude control lost! Warning, attitude control lost!" Alarms were blaring and every red warning light on the console was flashing. 

Findekáno cursed his own stupidity. Of course Morgoth must have a force field up, the first and least subtle defence against unwanted visitors. It would be a high altitude network, threading the atmosphere and scanning for landing craft, and burning out the electronics of any that did not have an authorisation chip. _If you can't hit the pilot, secure in their metal cage, hit the hull of the ship. Burn out the circuits connecting the thrusters to the controls with a power surge_ … Findekáno had seen systems like that before of course; it was the most basic planetary security measure. And he had just blundered right into it, caught like a fly in a spiders' web.

"Can we stabilise?" He tugged on the control gauntlets as if by force alone he could pull the ship's angle up, but it was no good; for some reason it wasn't working, the angle was all wrong, the controls no longer responding to his touch. _That lightning strike must have blown the attitude control circuits_. The ship was tumbling, he realised with horror, and he barely knew which way was up anymore. The gravitational field on this planet was just a fraction stronger than he was used to, he remembered suddenly, something he had made sure to check before he had come. He was beginning to feel the acceleration in his chest, as though a giant hand was crushing him slowly, making it difficult for him to draw breath. 

"Attempting to recover attitude control" said the console, and Findekáno heard the words muffled by the sound of pounding blood in his ears, all of his senses beginning to fog over. "Attempt failed. Emergency landing mode _highly_ recommended, young master."

" _No_." Speaking was hard; everything seemed difficult, effortful, but he would not let his search fail if by some miracle he could still make it to the ground alive. He made one last attempt to pull on the controls, throwing his whole weight and all his nearly-spent strength into it. But it was useless. They were still falling, hurtling downwards through the cloud layers, which were thickening noticeably. "No, no, _no_." His teeth were gritted in a mask of pain, of furious determination. _No, I will not die now. Not like this_.

His vision was narrowing, tunnelling, and he felt desperate tears in his eyes, flowing down his face. He knew that if he lost consciousness now, even if the ship's life support system was still functional it would not keep him alive long enough for aid to come to him. Not that he wanted the sort of _aid_ that would likely come to him on the surface. 

 _The surface_ … he could see it now through dimmed, half-closed eyes, the ground approaching with alarming speed. An ashen grey expanse of ragged, pitted terrain, rushing up to meet him. It was so close, he thought, his mind a blur of acceleration and pain and darkness. He could almost reach out and touch it… 

All went black.

He awoke lying on his front in complete darkness, with no memory of how he had gotten there. He lifted his head a little, staring around him desperately, not recognising the black, enclosed space. Then memory came back and he realised that the ship was almost upside down, its front three-quarters buried in what looked like fine ash or dust outside, black as night. The only way that light entered was through a half buried side-window, the dust piled up against it like black snow. 

He realised that he himself had fallen from the broken belts - though he supposed that they had saved his life - and must have hit his head on the smashed console. When he touched it, it was sticky with something, and his fingers came away dark in the dim blue glow of the emergency lampstones. Blood, he realised, touching his fingers gingerly to a matching wet, painful patch on his forehead. His own blood. He probed the wound cautiously, dreading the feel of the grating of bone. He did not think his skull was cracked though, despite the still-blinding pain that was filling up his head. He took a breath, trying to push the pain aside. He thought he may have a concussion, but had no time to worry about that now, and no time for pain either. He was alive, which meant he still had to find Maitimo. 

Findekáno looked around him, taking in the damage. The ship, it was clear to him after a brief inspection, would never fly again, its front end caved in by the head-on impact, a landing for which it was never designed. Even if he dug it out of the sand, its aerodynamics would not let it take off in this state. He frowned, wondering with another pang of guilt whether he could possibly repair it himself and how long that would take, or if he would have to steal an orc ship to return home with Maitimo.

He put the thought from his mind, trying to dwell only on practical matters, on the now. All the contents of the ship that were not strapped down - and a few that were - had been shaken loose and had fallen from their places, of course, but not everything was damaged. His spacesuit was still there; that was good. His portable radio beacon, his plasma knife and his laser blaster all seemed to be in place too. He found the ship's spare oxygen tank, pulling the mask over his face and taking a deep, greedy breath of it for a long moment, letting it clear his head, steadying him. Then he forced himself to take off the mask, sealing the tank once more. He would need it for later, he knew.

He busied himself with the ship's small first aid kit, pressing a plastidressing to his forehead, feeling the sweet relief as it melded to his skin, releasing painkiller into his blood. It was a low dose; not enough to dull the pain completely, but it certainly took the edge off. 

After a moment to fortify himself, he quickly dressed in his spacesuit, wincing at his bruised muscles sending stabs of pain through him as he twisted to do up the clasps. He supposed he had been extremely lucky not to be more seriously injured, but he did not feel lucky, right now. 

After he was dressed and his pack, laser rifle and oxygen tank strapped securely to his back, he placed a hand to his side, feeling the comforting weight of his small blaster snug in its thigh holster, his knife at his belt, his microtracker, his portable radio beacon. This last, he knew, he must only use in the most dire of emergencies. He knew he must have alerted the watchers of Moringotto to his presence when he had set off the force field; though they hadn't found him yet - and that meant he could not have been unconscious for very long at all, he realised - they would surely be on the hunt, and any radio signal would draw them like flies. It was possible that they assumed that the intruder was dead, killed in the crash, but he didn't want to risk it. The last thing he wanted was to give Moringotto another captive, leverage over Nolofinwë too. 

Nevertheless, the mere presence of the radio beacon was a comfort to him. He let his hand linger on it, and then on the place just above his breastbone beneath his suit where the silver locket hung. The one he had not worn for so long, that he had barely been able to look at on the long, dangerous journey through the Helcaraxë belt. The one that contained a bright lock of Maitimo's hair, which, he had reasoned with himself as he had left, he had brought with him to act as a DNA sample for his microtracker. The locket felt good about his neck though, somehow right. At any rate, he was glad he had not lost it in the crash. 

It was time to go. With an effort, Findekáno braced himself against the door - which was at ninety degrees to where it should be - and pulled on the little-used manual control wheel to open it.

The weight of the dust - or ash, or whatever this foul stuff was - piled up against the half-buried door made it very difficult to open, and he had to force it with his shoulder, a cascade of clinging grey-black powder falling on him as he pushed. Still, he managed to get it wide enough to scramble through and dig his way to the surface proper. Already the dust was in all the joints of his equipment, caking his whole body. He grimaced in disgust, before he realised that it would likely prove valuable camouflage in this desolate landscape. 

He clambered to his feet in a spray of the stuff, fine as it was. He gave silent thanks for his visor and his breathing apparatus. He didn't like the idea of inhaling the dust one bit. The thought of the breathing apparatus made him pause, though, as he looked around at the vast, grey, rocky expanse around him. He knew that one could breath the atmosphere at surface level - Moringotto, after all, kept many slaves, who did not immediately die of suffocation - but he also knew that it was polluted and just damaging enough to the lungs and throat that inhaling it long-term would certainly prove deadly in the end. That was how nearly all of Moringotto's thralls died, he had heard; coughing and spluttering up blood, their lungs shredded by the microscopic glass-sharp dust fragments. It didn't matter to the Dark One; Moringotto, after all, could always find more thralls. 

The oxygen tank, Findekáno knew, would last several days if he used it wisely and didn't do anything too physically taxing, his air-filtration system remaining functional a little longer if he made sure to clean it out regularly. How long would he be out here for? He had no answer to that question. _Just hurry up and find Maitimo_ , he thought. _Worry about everything else later._  

Findekáno gritted his teeth, thinking of Maitimo. If his cousin had survived this long, Moringotto would be keeping him somewhere high up, where the atmospheric composition was a little less harsh, away from the dust plains.

Findekáno looked up at that thought, but the air here seemed thick, swirling with grey haze. Overhead he could see the distant flashes of lightning strikes, in the higher cloud layers he had passed through before he had hit the force field. The clouds were lit with them in split second bursts, never seeming to cease. He remembered watching them from orbit; it felt like so long ago now. He could barely see anything beyond a hundred paces, and even at that distance, outside his little crater he could only see the looming black edifices of huge tumbled boulders, edges ragged and broken. He could glimpse nothing that looked like it had been shaped by the hands of even orc-masons, and he wondered briefly how far he might be from Moringotto's great stronghold. _The coordinates_ … he had checked and rechecked them, but still, he had no idea how far off course he had been thrown when the ship crashed. 

There was nothing to be done about it. Frowning, he shook the dust off his boots and began to walk. 

Findekáno started off in the direction of the nearest fallen rock, in the hopes of some cover from any pursuers and to get away from the obvious new impact crater his ruined ship had made. It was hard work walking with his heavy gear, a fine layer of sweat sheening his face already below the mask. It was also farther than it had looked from his vantage point behind the ship. He found it very hard to judge distance in this place. 

Once in the shadow of the rock, he took his microtracker from his belt, and, carefully unzipping the neck of his suit - he felt the polluted air against his skin for the first time, belatedly remembering the radiation levels here on the ground, yet another reason to get out quickly - and pulled out the locket, unclasping it and placing the lock of hair carefully in the DNA sample chamber. The brilliant red of Maitimo's hair, a little faded though it was, seemed for a moment the only bright thing in this whole grey landscape, everything else drawn of colour. The mere sight of it strengthened his resolve a little. 

The screen of the tiny tracker lit up, numbers racing across it. Findekáno held it up above his head - in the scant hope of getting a better read on Maitimo - and stared at it impatiently, waiting. 

The sad little bleep when it turned up no results was expected, but still disappointing. Findekáno frowned. He had known he would have to be extremely lucky for his crash site to be within tracker range of Maitimo, even with the coordinates. _If Maitimo was even alive. Maybe the reason the tracker can't get a read on him is because he's dead_. The thought crept into his mind unbidden before he could push it away, and he found himself immediately blinking back tears. _No. Even if he was dead, the tracker would still be able to detect his DNA if his body was within range_. _He must be too far away. And there's no reason for Moringotto to kill him. It doesn't make sense_. He knew he must keep a clear head, think rationally and logically, if he wanted to survive and escape with Maitimo. 

He chose a direction at random and began to walk once more. 

Once he had gone a little way from the impact crater, the rocks began to grow taller, ragged, broken boulders many times the size of Findekáno himself simply scattered about, as though by giant hands. He was going uphill; he knew - or hoped really - that that would eventually take him to Moringotto's stronghold, if it was to be found anywhere within the range that he could walk before he died out here. He would walk all over the planet, if he had more time. But he knew that soon enough the orcs would find him, or the radiation would kill him, for though his suit afforded him some protection it would not save him in the long run. That was, if he didn't run out of oxygen before that and have to breath the cruel air out here. 

He just hoped he could find Maitimo first. 

True to Findekáno's suspicions, the air was a little better up here in the rocks, away from the dusty, ashy plain below. It was also harder going though. The slightly higher gravity on this planet, though hardly enough to be noticeable when standing still, made every step feel like an effort. His own body felt a heavy burden, let alone his pack and breathing gear. Clambering over rocks too was even more of a test of endurance than traipsing through fine sand had been, and it was perilously easy to miss a step and fall. None of the rocks he climbed were high enough to hurt him seriously if he fell from them, but even so, after many small falls and missteps, he was bruised and sore, his whole body aching even on top of the bruises from the crash. 

After an uncountable number of hours - time seemed meaningless out here, the flat grey mist reducing the light of Anar to a haze, punctuated by distant lightning flashes - the daylight started to fade. Even as the twilight began, Findekáno caught his breath. As the dim disk of Anar reached the horizon, just visible through the murk, it lit up the whole sky in shades of rust red, as though blood had been spilt across a black and white picture of a world. 

Findekáno knew it was simply the light refracting in the atmosphere, he knew that it was akin even to the fair colours that lit the clouds in pale blues and orange, delicate pink and violet, on Hithlum and other more hospitable planets in the system. But still, he could not help but think of it as an omen, a curse on his mission.

Then came the long night. 

It was entirely dark, darker than any night he had ever experienced; he couldn't even see the stars for the thick, choking atmosphere. He could barely see his own hand inches from his face, most of the time. The only time he could see anything at all was when one of the ubiquitous flashes of lightning high up in the atmosphere lit the clouds above him. 

He had known, before he had come, that it was now winter in Angband's northern hemisphere. He had known that, and he had been prepared for short days and long nights. And yet that night seemed interminable and insufferable, every moment of it. For a while he tried to sleep, exhaustion claiming him for a few nervous hours of tossing and turning in a little natural cleft between two great rocks. He woke barely less tired than when he had first laid his head down, his mind on constant alert for danger. The night was very cold at this latitude, and though his suit was thickly insulated, he still shivered and wished for at least an extra blanket to wrap about himself. All he could do to distract himself was to think about his route for the next day. He wished desperately that he could keep going now. But he was also aware that in the dark it was even harder to navigate; he could easily end up going in circles. The tracker on his belt gave him his coordinates, _but with no navigation satellites to rely on here, it was using the planet's magnetic field, and these rocks could easily be magnetic, throwing the signal off_ … a million small worries flicked through his mind, overwhelming him, keeping him anxiously awake. 

He didn't even want to risk a light in the darkness, but with an effort he forced himself to take a lampstone from his pack, wincing a little as he thought about how the light could probably be seen for miles. But orcs, he knew, could see in the dark anyway. Better that he too could see at least enough to light his path, or any patrol that may come would have the advantage over him. 

Once he had finally given up on sleep, Findekáno drank a few sips of his precious water. He ate a little food too, one of the nondescript square protein cakes that he had brought from the ship's stores. Nevertheless it made him feel fractionally better, and so, overcome with restlessness, he set off once more despite the dark. 

As Anar rose, several hours later, the land was washed once more with the same bloody glow before the sky turned back into the grey haze he had grown so familiar with, lit with lightning strikes. The light of day made for easier going, but the terrain was still treacherous, and more so as he went uphill. He seemed to be moving into some sort of upland, perhaps leading into the mountain range he remembered peering at on a satellite image from the ship's records, on his console screen on the way from Hithlum. He wished he could look at that map again. He _hoped_ these were the same mountains that girdled Moringotto's main headquarters on the planet, but really he had no way of knowing. 

As well as the rocks, there were fissures now, some widening into great crevasses that would make deadly traps for the unwary. He knew that tonight he could not risk travelling in the dark, slightly sick at the idea that he may well have walked right by many such cracks unknowingly in the black of the night before. 

As the day wore on - a day here was a couple of hours longer than one back on Hithlum, even with the early sunset of winter - and he found nothing, not a single trace of life, despair began to set in. He supposed he was lucky that nothing seemed to be out hunting him, but right now he would have given anything to see even an orc, some evidence at least that Moringotto did in fact inhabit this planet, that Findekáno was at least on the right track. He felt as though he were the only survivor left in a deserted universe, a whole empty world in which he would be alone forever. Occasionally he held up the microtracker, sometimes scanning for Maitimo's DNA, sometimes scanning for any life form at all. All of his scans came up blank. Eventually he gave up pausing to hold it in the air, leaving it simply scanning, clipped to his belt. 

At last, when he was forced to admit he could not go any further without resting a while, he sat heavily down upon a rock, exhausted and worn by worry and pain. He was in the shadow of a tall rock wall or overhanging cliff, and it was, he reasoned, a place with some slight cover from any eyes that may be watching. The air was a little better up here at this slightly higher altitude, but it only meant that Findekáno had taken the chance to remove his mask, unhooking his oxygen tank. Less than half an hour later he was feeling the effects of the air on his lungs, already considering putting it back on and taking some more highly-oxygenated breaths before trying to sleep some, for he felt he could hardly go on in this state; he felt weak, and it frightened him. 

He wondered what would happen if he died here, right now. His father would find out at some point, but how? Who would tell him? Would the orcs deliver a gleeful message to Hithlum before the high king of the Noldor? Would they present him with Findekáno's head preserved in a jar, or some other such grisly trophy? Or would Moringotto claim to have him a captive, in order to force compliance from Nolofinwë? He gritted his teeth. He would allow none of these things. He must not let himself slip away; he would not die without a fight, a weapon in his hand, he told himself. He would not die unless it was in a direct attempt to protect Maitimo, for was that not what he had come here for? 

As much to keep himself alert as anything, he began to sing, his voice a cracked, dehydrated hum, little-used on his journey. He sang a song that he had known back in the Valinor system, when the binary stars Laurelin and Telperion had arced across the sky in brilliance outside his window and the sky had been a soft violet, the air clear and bright. When flying his ship had been a joy, and he and Maitimo, or his siblings or the sons of Arafinwë, would take their rangers out and have races through the rings around the inner planets, and still be home in time for supper. He sang of the long yellow grasses waving at twilight on the plains that girdled the city of Tirion on the planet of Túna, of that shining city with its elegant walkways and bright glass towers that had been his home for so long. He sang of satellites that arced overhead, shining in the light of the two Stars, keeping watch for lost elves who had wandered far from home. He sang of music in the air on summer nights where the heavy, fragrant purple blossoms in the flowerbed had brushed their pollen against his sleeves as he had walked with Maitimo in the garden, laughing and debating some inconsequential matter or other. They had both been so young then.

Findekáno broke his song off, suddenly alert, for in that moment he had became aware of another sound, entwining itself with his voice. 

A bleeped alarm, he realised, and from somewhere very close by indeed. 

It took him a moment to recognise the sound of the tracker registering a positive match, but when he did it had an electric effect on Findekáno, making him sit up in sudden alertness. He was taken by surprise, nearly dropping the tracker onto the rocks. Hastily he scrabbled to catch the device, before it fell away, forever lost in a fissure. He peered at the screen. It was caked with dirt now, as was all his other gear, and he wiped it clean impatiently with his glove.

 _DNA match detected_ , it said, and then, when he scrolled to the location, _within 200 metres_.

Findekáno growled in frustration. Two hundred metres? That was nothing, he thought. He could _see_ almost that far, and he couldn't see anything alive, let alone Maitimo. Besides, why would Moringotto put his prisoner here, in the middle of… well, nothing at all, really. It must be wrong, a false positive. 

Bitter disappointment coursed through him, and he resisted the impulse to dash the thing to pieces against the rock in frustration. 

Instead, he ran the scan again. 

 _DNA match detected. Within 200 metres_. 

Findekáno frowned, leaning back against the cliff to look all around him. Could this be a trick? Some false signal sent out by the Enemy? It was possible. But if there was any hope that it was the real thing, any hope at all that it really was Maitimo…

 _Two hundred metres_. He squinted into the gloomy, hazy air. It was already starting to get dark, the sky beginning to be tinged with a hint of rust red, and it was difficult to see much at all. But the area where he had stopped was a little clearer than the rest of the rocky landscape, which was why he had chosen it, so that any attackers would find it hard to sneak up on him. He could see at least two hundred metres outwards from the cliff face, and there was no one there. Behind him was only solid rock. There was no other direction but…

 _Up_.

Findekáno looked up, pacing quickly away from the cliff edge and craning his neck backwards, his weary muscles aching. The top of the cliff disappeared into the clouds above, backlit by the flicker of lightning high up and far off, but as he squinted up at the rock face he caught his breath.

There were square alcoves all over the cliff face, he realised, holes large enough to stand up in. Or perhaps even tunnels; he could not see how far back into the rock they went. They were placed seemingly at random, but were all the same size and shape, precisely machine-cut as far as Findekáno could tell. None were low enough to be seen from the base of the cliff, where he had been walking. 

 _Two hundred metres_.

Just at the level where the the clouds began to devour the rock face into their grey, swirling expanse, he could see one of the alcoves lit from within by a dim, steady electric pink glow. 

"Maitimo!" he yelled, his voice resounding from the cliff face, not even caring if any orcs should hear him. He was suffused with determination now. _Let them come._  

There was no answer. "Maitimo! Maitimo, it's me, Finno. I've come to save you! Can you hear me? Maitimo? _Maitimo!_ " 

Still no answer. Findekáno gritted his teeth, trying not to let this discourage him. Maitimo _had_ to be there, he simply had to. Findekáno had called, and Maitimo's DNA signature at least had called back to him. Besides, even if Maitimo _wasn't_ up there, it was the only lead Findekáno had, and there may be something there that could give him some other clue. Either way, one stage of his journey was over, another beginning. 

He was in no doubt about what he must do.

Nevertheless, he was not quite sure how to do it. He gazed at the cliff for a while, faced with another problem. How to get up? After a moment, he smiled, touching his hand to his plasma knife. He flicked the switch, and the short blade flickered into life, lighting his face in brilliant blue. He thrust it into the rock face, just above his head, holding it in place until the rock was burned away a little, creating a shallow, narrow handhold. But it was deep enough to fit his fingers into. He made another one just the same, before laboriously rolling the largest boulder he could shift to the base of the cliff, climbing onto it and making another two handholds, as high as he could reach. Then, offering a quick prayer up to Manwë out of habit, he fitted his fingers into the cracks, gripping the hilt of his plasma knife between his teeth, trusting his full weight to his handiwork. His feet went in the first two holds he had made. His boots were a little too large for them, so that he nearly slipped and fell as the weight of his pack shifted, almost losing his balance as his unconscious mind undercorrected, slightly misjudging the gravity here even now.

He caught his balance again, pressing his body close and flat to the rock face, and dared to let go of one handhold, taking up his knife again and burning out another grip, higher this time, and then another. When they were finished, he hoisted himself unsteadily up once more, muscles protesting all the time. The additional gravitational field was really beginning to wear him down.

Still, Findekáno carried on like this until he reached the first alcove. This one was empty and dark, simply a cuboidal bore hole cut precisely into the rock. It was as wide as it was tall, and it was tall enough for someone a little taller than Findekáno was to stand up comfortably in. _Cells?_ he wondered. _Was this place a vertical prison? Or was it something else?_ The cell extended somewhat deeper into the rock face, and there was just enough light for him to see that it really was quite empty. He rested there for a moment, making sure all his gear was in place and collecting himself, before making another set of handholds above, pulling himself up. 

By the time he had made it up to the source of the glowing brightness he had seen from the ground, it was fully dark, and he was exhausted and trembling, every muscle in his body hurting. Several times he almost fallen to his death, but had managed to cling on at the last moment. He was breathing hard as he pulled himself that last little way, over the ledge, bracing himself for a fight even as he did so. _This could still be a trap. There could be guards. It might not even be Maitimo at all._  

He frowned as he hauled himself to his feet, and then his eyes widened at what he saw before him. 

The sickening, too-bright pink glow hurt his eyes after all the darkness. Once his vision adjusted to the dazzling shape before him, he saw that it was a tall, glass cylinder, anchored at the floor and ceiling, and lit from the inside by pink heat lamps. It was filled with some sort of fluid, as far as he could see. 

And within it, as though suspended in the strange substance, was Maitimo. 

Findekáno caught his breath at the shock, followed quickly by anguish, of seeing his cousin like that. Maitimo's forehead, legs and chest were held fast to a central metal post by plastic straps. He was entirely naked and his skin was so pale it was almost translucent, bright veins visible beneath. His face was puffy and swollen, but his body was thinner than Findekáno had ever seen him, horrifyingly starved, and the harsh lighting only emphasised the ridges and hollows, the angles of his painfully prominent ribs and hipbones, casting him in bright fluorescence and deep shadow.

Maitimo's skin was covered, too, in deep-ridged scars. Many were random, crisscrossing his body carelessly, the thoughtlessly playful infliction of pain they implied making rage twist inside Findekáno. But not all the scars were like that, he realised in horror. There were scars, too, that were geometrical, methodical incisions that had been sewn up, long deliberate lines that looked as though Maitimo had been operated on, taken apart and put back together. Maitimo's hair - hacked roughly to about shoulder length - floated eerily about his head like a bloody halo. His eyes were closed. 

Much as it pained him, Findekáno forced himself to move in cautiously for a closer look. Tubes and wires connected to Maitimo's spinal column and the nape of his neck, electrodes sticking into his temples and across his forehead. There was also a large, ugly knot of them in Maitimo's right hand. Findekáno inspected it with horrified fascination, anger building in him. There was something under the skin, a heavy plastic implant in his palm, and Findekáno could see where the surgeon had sutured it in, the flesh growing over it. There was something protruding from it, spreading out beneath the pallid, paper-thin skin of Maitimo's open palm, towards the tips of his fingers. Findekáno could see the wires there, implanted for who knew what evil purpose. 

Findekáno placed his palm on the glass, pressing his face up as close as he could to his cousin's. 

"Maitimo" he whispered, tears filling his eyes as he gazed into his cousin’s achingly familiar face, strangely distorted as it was by the curved glass surface. Maitimo didn't reply. Findekáno walked all the way around the cylindrical tank feeling helpless, trying to find some sort of release, a door, but of course there was none. He smiled grimly, loosening his oxygen tank from its setting in his pack. It was a large, heavy canister, and it would make as good a battering ram as any. He would smash the glass, pull the tubes and wires from Maitimo's skin, carry him to safety somehow. 

He gathered his strength, hefting the tank in his arms. Suddenly doubt tugged at him, nagging in the back of his mind. _What if that fluid, those wires and tubes, are what is keeping him alive? What if by breaking the glass, his life will bleed away into nothing?_

He hesitated for a long, long moment, torn, at a loss for what to do. 

Then he lowered the canister, letting his head tip forward, the front of his visor clicking against the glass tank. 

 _Tap_. 

A long pause, as Findekáno squeezed his eyes closed, trying to think, trying not to despair. Then -

 _Tap tap_.

Immediately Findekáno drew back in startled shock, his hand going to his gun as he stared up, glancing around nervously. He let out a small sound at what he saw, a tiny gasp.  

Maitimo's eyes had sprung open. In his eyes was recognition, confusion, relief and horror, all mingled together. 

 _How did you come here?_ Maitimo's eyes seemed to say, and then, _go back_. 

"I came to save you" said Findekáno, who couldn't help the smile that was spreading across his face. There were tears rolling freely down his cheeks now as he stared at the mask of bleary-eyed confusion and shock that was Maitimo's beloved face. "I came to bring you home." 

He doubted very much that Maitimo could hear him, but he hoped that his cousin might at least understand. Findekáno felt suddenly, inexplicably happy. _He is alive. That's all that matters. The rest is just details_.

Except it wasn't though. As he watched, Maitimo's face turned sorrowful. He could see Maitimo trying to move his mouth, trying to form the sounds _Findekáno_ , but his mouth, his throat - probably his lungs too - were filled with fluid, and no sound could come from him. Findekáno supposed the tubes connecting to his hand were providing him with oxygen, straight into his blood, for he could see no breathing, no rise and fall of Maitimo's narrow chest. 

Maitimo stopped struggling to speak, his face grave. Once more he tapped on the glass, a strangely childish gesture, and then raised his left hand - the one not connected to the spray of wires - and laid his palm flat against the glass, with a look of mingled longing, sorrow, and deep, deep pain. 

"It's okay, Maitimo" said Findekáno, wishing he could touch his cousin's face, comfort him in some way. "I'm going to get you out of here." He raised a hand to meet Maitimo's, on the other side of the glass, lining up their fingers with each other. 

Then he realised Maitimo was shaking his head, his eyes filled with anguish. Slowly, Maitimo pulled his left hand back from Findekáno's hand, drawing a finger slowly, deliberately across his own throat. _Please_ , he mouthed through the glass, his face begging. Maitimo's hands then clasped together as though in prayer - an aspect made awkward by the wires and nodes implanted in his right palm - as he looked Findekáno straight in the eye. _Please_.  

Findekáno's mouth dropped a little open in surprise and growing horror, caught off guard. Was Maitimo asking Findekáno to kill him? Whatever he had been expecting, whatever horrors he had prepared himself for, it had not been this. "No" he said forcefully. "No, no, there's got to be another way…"

Maitimo was shaking his head, slowly, sadly, his face a twist of pain. 

Findekáno ignored him. He paced for a moment, deciding. After a moment he looked back at Maitimo, his face set in pain. "Maitimo…" he murmured, pain coursing through him. His mind was awhirl with indecision. 

_This is what Maitimo wants. Are you not here to save him from pain, from darkness?_

_Very well. I cannot go back empty-handed_ , he thought, in sudden clarity. _If he is to die, then I must follow soon after._  

But first one thing. 

He pulled the emergency beacon from his belt, holding it close to his mouth. 

He would record a message, a last broadcast, sent out into space. If the orcs heard it, then perhaps that would not be so bad. If Maitimo were to die, and Findekáno too, then at least the Dark Lord would know how it was that at the last his plan to keep Maitimo had been undone.

He steadied himself to record his message. "This is Findekáno Nolofinwion, upon Angband. I have found Maitimo, but I… well, right now it doesn't look like we'll be able to come back. I… Father, please forgive me, if you can. Valar…" his voice faltered; he had never been much good at praying, though he did it sometimes when no one was around to hear, especially lately. "Um. Manwë… grant me the strength to achieve what I must, and bring mercy to us poor princes of the Noldor, though we sure don't deserve too much. This is… um, this is Findekáno, signing off now." He nearly laughed then, pain bubbling up inside of him, but before he did he cut off the recording, flicking the switch. Then he set the beacon to broadcast, before flinging it in a wide arc, out of the cell and over the desolate valley. If any friendly ships were in orbit around this desolate planet - a slim chance in itself, he knew - then perhaps they would know of what he had done, that he had gotten this far. At least until the beacon ran out of power and stopped broadcasting, the last of his voice fading to nothing. _If we are to die, let us make a noise doing so_. 

Then he picked up the oxygen canister from where he had let it fall down to the floor before, determination and anger coursing through him even as he did so. _Moringotto will pay for this_ , he thought. _He will pay for what he has done to my Maitimo_.

"Maitimo" he said. "Look out."

Gathering all his anger together, he swung the canister back, forward, back again - and then, with a shout of rage, he smashed it into the glass tank with all the strength left to him. 

For a moment nothing happened, except that hairline cracks spread across the surface, an ominous creaking filling the stone cell. Then the front of the tank was bursting outwards, fluid exploding everywhere, thicker than he had expected. It smelled strongly of something vile that he couldn't put a name to, a strange, poisonously sweet mixture of chemical scents, heavy and strong and sickening. Broken glass and fluid was everywhere on the floor, and Findekáno stumbled through it, cutting the plastic bands holding Maitimo in place with his knife, being exquisitely careful not to graze Maitimo's fragile skin. 

When the bonds were cut, Maitimo collapsed into Findekáno's arms, a dead weight. He could barely support himself on his weak legs, Findekáno realised, and the slack tubes and wires still trailed and coiled back to the base of the smashed tank. 

Carefully, Findekáno lowered Maitimo to the ground, clearing away the broken glass as best he could, pushing away the sodden hair that was slicked over Maitimo's face so his cousin could breath. 

Maitimo was convulsing in his arms, coughing copious amounts of the strange, strong-smelling fluid, and Findekáno wished there was something else he could do as he listened to the rattling, bubbling sounds his cousin was making. Maitimo rolled over onto his front weakly, the stuff pouring from his mouth and nose, emptying from his saturated lungs. "F - Fin" he managed, his voice a gurgling, choking sound, barely intelligible. "Fin, you… you came."

"Easy, easy" murmured Findekáno, pulling Maitimo's hair aside and rubbing the small of his back in slow, soothing circles. His eyes were rimmed with red, his face growing blotchy as he lost a little of his pallor. But to Findekáno's relief, Maitimo's breaths seemed to be growing fractionally deeper, more regular and less laboured. He seemed to be steadily remembering how to breath. "Yes, of course I came" said Findekáno. "You didn't think I'd let them get away with doing this to you, did you?" He clasped Maitimo's hand, frowning. A moment ago, he had resolved to obey Maitimo's wishes and put an end to his life, but now, when his cousin was here in his arms, it felt much easier to delay, to help him and offer him kindness. Maitimo was supporting himself on his hands now, made awkward by the bulky implant in his right palm, as he wretched and coughed onto the floor, his twisted, ridged spine arching in Findekáno's arms. His back, Findekáno saw now, still had many tubes sewn into it, liquid still seeping into them. 

"Cut… cut the tubes" panted Maitimo. He turned, looking at Findekáno, and his eyes were wide, full of pain. "Please, Finno. They're filling me drugs, they're keeping me… keeping me… I want to be free, I don't want to live or die under their control, I want, I can't, I want…"

Findekáno considered. He supposed at least that the tubes were not the only thing keeping Maitimo alive, now he was back in the air. He felt a pang of pity and pain, and renewed anger at Moringotto. _How dare He. How dare the filth do this to the one I love_. 

"Maitimo…" he said falteringly. 'Maitimo, are you sure…"

"Please" begged Maitimo again. He hesitated. "If you won't end… end my life, please… cut the tubes, and the wires. It… it won't kill me. I'll survive, if that's…" every word seemed to cost him a great effort, his voice croaky and raw, yet still bubbling with liquid. "…if that's what you're worried about. Just… please. Let me be free."

Findekáno held him in his arms for a moment, indecision taking hold again even as he savoured, for the briefest moment, holding Maitimo close again, heart beating beneath warm skin. But no; he could not allow himself that indulgence now. Maitimo's naked skin was wet and sticky with that strange fluid, and he was beginning to shiver violently in the cold, his eyes both glazed and full of anguish all at once. 

Findekáno looked at the tubes. He narrowed his eyes, thinking. Would Maitimo lie to him about whether cutting the tubes would kill him? Findekáno thought probably not. 

 _Fool. Maitimo already betrayed you once before, remember_?

Did he even have the right to make the decision based on that? If Maitimo wanted to die, if he trusted Findekáno to do it, should Findekáno not put aside his own qualms and do what Maitimo himself wished?

In truth, he had no idea what to do, his exhausted mind struggling and floundering at every turn. 

 _Whatever I may suffer_ , he thought suddenly as he looked at his cousin, _it is nothing compared to the pain he has been in_. If Findekáno had held resentment in his heart for Maitimo once - and he had, of course he had, all those cold, perilous days passing through the Helcaraxë belt, where life was cheap and sheer luck could mean the difference between a ship being smashed to pieces and surviving to fly on the next day, through the next peril - he felt the last of it ebbing away in that moment, replaced by pity and an affection so deep and wide it made him want to weep. 

He looked Maitimo in the eye. "I love you" he murmured, almost too low for Maitimo to hear, laying the gentlest of kisses on Maitimo's brow. "Forgive me."

Maitimo did hear though, and his puffy, bluish lips even curled a little into some semblance of a smile, reddened eyes half closing as he nodded weakly, seemingly overcome. 

Findekáno drew his knife and cut the plastic tubes going to Maitimo's spine in one stroke, then the ones going to his head, then those going to his hand.

Immediately, Maitimo shuddered in Findekáno's arms, his face slackening in relief. Fear shot through Findekáno for the briefest moment, before Maitimo took a deep breath, opening his eyes a crack. "Th-thank you" he said. "That is much better."

"You were telling the truth" said Findekáno, laying a hand on Maitimo's cheek. His own tears were dripping onto Maitimo's face. 

Maitimo nodded, barely able to move his head. "I… I will never lie to you again. Besides, I… I wanted the dreams gone. I needed to be certain, I needed to _know_ , Finno, that… that you weren't just another nightmare. They filled me with drugs, with dreams, horrible things…" there were silent tears on his face, cheeks already slick and shiny once again. "And… now I know. Thank… thank you Findekáno…" he grasped handfuls of the front of Findekáno's suit, burying his face in it as he shuddered with gasping, trembling sobs. 

Findekáno held him all the while, gently stroking Maitimo's still sodden hair and never wanting to let go. "How do I fix it?" he asked, pressing his face to the crown of Maitimo's head. "How do I make it better?"

Maitimo drew back. "You, Finno. You need to get away safe, without me. There's… there's one more thing." Maitimo seemed to falter, hand grasping weakly at Findekáno's sleeve. "Please, kill me. It’s the only way to win against him. Kill me here, put an end to this and run away, go as far as - "

"Kill you? But… I cut the tubes! You're safe! You're free, Maitimo."

"No. Not free. Never free, ever again… go, Findekáno…."

"I'm not leaving without you!" 

"Please!" Maitimo waved his right hand desperately, weakly. The square implant with its branches just beneath Maitimo's skin was still there. "Findekáno. This is a tracking device. If… I leave the planet… He… He will _know_." Maitimo's eyes turned wide at this. "I'll never be free of Him, it's too deep under my skin, it's in all the fingers of my hand…  you can't cut it out, or rip it out, I've _tried_ … and as long as I'm with you, He'll know where _you_ are, He'll come for you…" Maitimo covered his face with his free hand, trembling violently with sudden terror in Findekáno's arms. 

"Maitimo…"

"And… and it's not just that…" horror clawed at Maitimo's voice. "Finno, He can use these to control people, He switches the chip on remotely and takes over their bodies, making them… making them do things… killing their loved ones, burning and destroying… I heard _them_ talking about it… I heard…" he faltered, his voice shuddering. "I… I will never be me again with this, Finno. I just want to be free. Please… help me?" 

Findekáno stared at him, then at his hand, then back to Maitimo’s face again, horror-stricken. He was about to reply when the scant light from outside was suddenly blocked out. Immediately, he was on his feet standing in front of Maitimo and shielding him with his own body from whatever lay without. He drew his blaster, squinting out into the darkness, but there didn't seem to be anything to aim the gun at. Or perhaps there was? He could barely see anything, but there, in the clouds, there was something… 

_A ship?_

For a moment fear seized him, for if it was a whole ship full of orcs then they were both doomed for certain, in the state they were each in. 

Then he realised he _recognised_ the ship. 

His eyes widened incredulously. _Back in the Valinor system, Manwë's_ Eagle _drone fleet used to sometimes fly through the outer planets to the inner ring, returning from surveillance missions far afield_ … he had never expected to see one again though, let alone here. 

Yet in that moment, all his questions were secondary, as he waved his arms desperately. "Over here!" he yelled. "Help! Please!"

The _Eagle_ was coming towards them. Findekáno pulled back as it docked at the mouth of the cell, its clawed docking hooks - made for clinging to uneven ground, for docking in the most vertiginous and difficult places that couldn't be reached by any other means - latched on to the stone around the door, its airlock and main loading port hissing open. As it did, Findekáno's stunned mind took in the painted letters on the hull; this was not just any _Eagle_ drone, he realised, but the _Thorondor_ , the pride of Manwë's fleet. 

 _My radio beacon_ , he thought in sudden wonder. _The drone must have picked up the signal and traced its point of origin. That broadcast saved us, in the end_. 

He could almost have sung once more. But now was not the time. Now he had a plan, growing in his mind. Now he had one more task to do before they could go home.

"Maitimo" said Findekáno slowly, as the wind from the ship's landing stirred their hair, the first real wind he had felt since he had come here and all the better for it. He tried to hold Maitimo close, to warm his cousin's weak, shivering body with his own. "Everything's going to be alright. We're going to get out of this, okay? But…" he took Maitimo's face in his hands, faltering for a moment. "First, there's something I need to do. Do you… do you trust me?" He took Maitimo's right hand in his own, feeling the place where the tracker was embedded. It stopped just at the heel of his hand, implanted deep in his palm; some of the small bones in Maitimo's hand must have been removed to install it, Findekáno realised in revulsion. He had no doubt that it had been done against Maitimo's will and without his consent. He swallowed nervously. "Do you trust me?" he said again, drawing his knife. 

Maitimo nodded slowly, eyeing the glowing blue plasma knife in Findekáno's hand. "Yes."

 _He thinks I'm going to kill him_ , Findekáno realised. _He thinks I am going to kill him, and he accepts that even now_. The mere thought made tears burst from his eyes once more. "I'm going to need… I'm going to need to cut your hand off, Maitimo" he said, the words hard in his mouth, choking him. He had to say them though; Maitimo had to know. "It… it will be over quickly. The blade should cauterise the wound, but… there will be pain. You'll be free though, afterwards."

Maitimo had blanched a little, clearly involuntarily, when Findekáno had spoken first of cutting his hand off, but now he gritted his teeth, steeling himself. "Yes" he said, his voice hard-edged, though quiet. "Yes, do it. Please."

Findekáno nodded, imagining, for a moment, the feeling of the glowing, burning plasma knife on his own skin, the very thought turning his stomach. He gritted his teeth and touched the knife to Maitimo's wrist. 

The flesh was tougher than he had expected; the knife did not simply cut through it as it did for other substances, and he could feel bone, tendons, tugging at the blade. His larger sword, back on Hithlum, would have done the job much better, he thought ruefully, but this small, low-powered knife was never designed to cut through flesh and bone, so it was excruciatingly slow work. Maitimo was frozen stiff and ridged, clearly making the greatest effort he could not to scream in pain. Findekáno carried on, feeling Maitimo's other hand scrabbling weakly, convulsively at the material of Findekáno's suit. 

Now it seemed that Maitimo couldn't hold back the screams anymore, for he let out a soft, quickly stifled shriek, biting down immediately on his lip, drawing blood which ran down his pale chin, dripping onto his chest. The smell and sound of burning flesh was filling the air, but even so, Findekáno realised, the knife was not enough to cauterise such a large wound. The blood was beginning to spill down Maitimo's wrist, spurting a little at the gaping veins. 

Maitimo's body was jerking and twitching on the floor. "Fin… no, Fin, stop… I… I can't take any more, kill me, take my life, no more pain, no more, please, _please_ stop…" his words came one tumbling after the next, a constant, steady stream. 

"I can't stop now, love" whispered Findekáno, tears on his face again. "I… I can't. I am so, so sorry."

With one last hacking, burning stroke, he severed the last thread of sinew, and the hand - burned and bloodied, the tracking implant like a malignant electronic parasite within it - fell to the stone floor with grotesque, wet smacking sound. 

"There, you'll be okay, it's gone, everything…" he was nearly sobbing, clinging to Maitimo in shock at what he had just done, "….everything will be okay, I promise." It was likely a lie, and he supposed Maitimo knew it. 

For a moment more Findekáno, sodden with blood, allowed himself to hold Maitimo in his arms as his cousin screamed, breathing in too hard. After a while, nearly slipping in the blood, Findekáno grasped the nearly-emptied oxygen tank once more, putting the mask over Maitimo's face, his tears falling on it, but his cousin at least seemed to breath a bit more easily after that. Then Findekáno pulled himself to his feet. Maitimo was too weak to walk, of course, so Findekáno, half-falling with exhaustion though he was, lifted Maitimo up, oxygen supply and all, cradling him like a child. Though Maitimo was fearfully light, Findekáno was glad that the ship was right there; in his weakened state he didn't think he could walk very far unsupported on his own, let alone carrying Maitimo. 

The doors of the _Thorondor_ closed behind them even as Findekáno laid Maitimo down, blood pooling immediately beneath him. 

The console lit up, sensing their motion. It was the oddest ship Findekáno had ever been in, he thought somewhere in the back of his mind. The _Eagles_ were, first and foremost, surveillance drones, and though they could be piloted, there were barely any controls, merely a console and a couple of holoscreen displays, upon which a stylised eagle logo was rotating in blue and white. Everything was state of the art, that much Findekáno could tell by one look. There were certainly none of the antiquated but responsive control gauntlets that Findekáno was so used to. 

"My lord Manwë sends his compliments, and I wish you a pleasant day on behalf of all the Valar" said the calm voice of the console, as Findekáno held Maitimo in his arms, bloody footprints trailing them to a small passenger bay. "Welcome. Please state you desired destination."

Findekáno's mind went blank for a moment, jolted by the surreality of it all, after the last few days. "Hithlum" he choked out at last. "Lake Mithrim docking station, northern bank. Please." 

The console whirred in response. "Of course. Locking sequence activating for take-off. I must warn you that we may experience some turbulence."

But Findekáno was barely listening. He was lifting Maitimo to the passenger bay, strapping him into the belts before searching for the last plastidressings he had left from his battered pack, which had somehow managed to stay on his back the whole time. He dropped it to the ground now, rooting through it in frustration. "Come on, come on" he muttered as he felt the ship start to shift beneath them. This was their chance; he couldn't let Maitimo bleed to death, not after all this… there was blood everywhere, on the floor, and he wondered how he had hoped that his small blue plasma knife alone would cauterise such a gaping wound. Finally he found his small first aid kit, pulling it out triumphantly. 

It was not enough; both dressings together could barely stem the bleeding at all, for they were designed for much more minor injuries. Maitimo's skin, too, was slick and sticky with blood and the foul-smelling fluid in which Moringotto had held him, and the plastic patches wouldn't stick properly. Findekáno nearly despaired then, before he saw Maitimo's face. Over the oxygen mask, Maitimo's pale silver eyes were half-closed, bloodshot. He looked listless, as though he were halfway dead already, all the colour starting to ebb once more from his skin. 

"No!" exclaimed Findekáno aloud, taking Maitimo's face between his hands as the ship began to lift into the atmosphere. "No, you're _not_ dying on me. Maitimo, do you understand? I won't let you!"

Maitimo didn't answer, letting out only a weak mewl of pain. Findekáno pulled the cord from the neck of his own suit, binding it tightly about Maitimo's arm, and although his hands slipped in the blood - he thought he would never be rid of the blood, Maitimo's blood would always be on him - after he was finished the bleeding seemed at least to have slowed. Next Findekáno pulled off his outer suit - caked in black ash as it was - and drew his knife once more, cutting a strip from the hem of his shirt beneath. He tied it as a bandage in addition to his clumsy tourniquet, binding it as tightly as he could, muttering comforting, desperate nonsense to Maitimo all the while.

A jolt shook the ship then as they rose, knocking Findekáno painfully to the ground. 

A voice from his past startled him then, permeating his stunned mind.

" _Finno, strap yourself into the belts for take-off, damn it. Do you want to crack your head against the side of your own ship?_ "

It was Maitimo's voice, but not the Maitimo who was lying bleeding beside him. It was the Maitimo of his past, the one with whom he had taken his new ship for its first spin around the inner ring, laughing and rolling in midair when he turned off the artificial gravity. The one who had been beside him as he gazed out into the bright smear of the galaxy streaked across the wide sky, the one Findekáno had told first about how he wondered what there was to find there in the outer reaches, and how splendid it would be to go there some day, just the two of them. 

Maitimo had laughed at that, then. But then, Findekáno had been joking, and Maitimo's laughter had been what he had wanted, to see that beloved face crinkled in joy at something he had said. 

They had been so young then.

Back in the present, he picked himself up off the floor of the passenger bay, strapping himself into the belts beside Maitimo, leaning over as best he could. He took the stump of Maitimo's right wrist in his hands and checked the bandage, though Maitimo whimpered in pain, pain that Findekáno could almost feel himself. The blood was already starting to seep through the pale grey cloth, but at least Maitimo was no longer losing blood at such an alarming rate. Findekáno decided that that would have to suffice for now, for there was very little else he could do but wait to get to the medical bay at Mithrim docking station. He took Maitimo's left hand in his own, whispering to him. "Hush, Maitimo. We'll be home soon. It'll all be over. We're… we're going home."

It wasn't true, of course, and he wondered if it would ever be true again, if they would ever have somewhere they could call home again and have it _feel_ true. But for now, at least, it would have to do, for it was all he had to promise, the only hope he had to give. 

And as the _Eagle_ began to clear the cliffs and pass into the atmosphere, he clasped Maitimo's hand once more, and hoped with all his heart that it would be enough. 


End file.
